Under the Northern Star
by Carouselina
Summary: Hermione has escaped the trauma of Ron's death to Lapland, the mysterious winter country. As she struggles to grasp life again, she comes face to face with someone who is supposed to have passed on. The man in black. SS
1. Prologue

_Author's note_: This fic is my testament of love to Severus Snape. You may ask me, "All this time, and still?", and I will reply, "Always".

**Prologue**

The clock on the wall struck four. It was already dark outside; a deep bluish cape was sweeping softly down the sky and over the fells. Specks of light glittered here and there on the snow-covered mountains, and the moon shimmered quietly above Mount Ear.

Six months. She had still been alive just six months ago.

His last kiss lingered on her lips still, his smell in her nose, the warmth of his smile as he left for the mission.  
Forever.

She stood up to banish the thought and walked to the window. It was a peculiar feeling -like the darkest night, but with the activity of a day. Cars were driving to and from the hotel yard, and people in their ski gear strolled on the path leading to the ski lifts.

She didn't have any ski gear. She only had memories that haunted her day and night. During the days, the smallest sound, the faintest rustle made her look up in hope, and at night, the dreams washed over her and brought him to her, as if he had still been there.

She hated sleeping. She hated the silence as the clock struck ten, eleven, twelve, and the hotel quieted down. Some nights, she had sat by the door, leaning against it and listening to the occasional steps in the corridor. The TV was always open, but many programs were in the native language, and she didn't understand it. Still, it was better than silence in a language she understood.

A large envelope and a crumpled letter lay on the table, next to a candle that had almost burned out. She had no owl and there was no owl station anywhere close either; she was cut off from the wizarding world and dependant on her parents. They dealt with all her correspondence with the owl she had bought them just...a month before life ended.

_"Darling Hermione,"_ said the letter in bubbly, lively handwriting. _"I heard you're abroad, and I'm not sure you've seen the many articles and stories that have popped up in the papers since the summer. So, since I have access to the archives, I thought I'd help you out! Here is a nice, thick stack -enjoy! Your friend, Rita Skeeter."_

She felt her body shake as her eyes fell on one of the newspaper clippings peeking from the envelope. She could make out the words, "In memoriam: Ronald Weasley".

'I hate you," she whispered. 'I hate you, Master Dominus.'

She knew exactly how the article continued. Knew those words that equalled vomit for her.

_"Harry Potter's best friend dies tragically in duty...emerging new Dark Wizard group led by the mysterious Master Dominus...a group of Aurors checked a building based on an anonymous tip...Avada Kedavra...died immediately..."_

In a rushing moment of fury, she ran to the table and tore the clipping into a thousand pieces, ripped the letter into pulp, threw it all in the fire. Gasping and choking, she fell on the bear fur on the floor.

How was she supposed to continue life?


	2. The Man in the Shadows

**Chapter 1: The Man in the Shadows**

Mornings were the best time. The sun never came fully up this high in the north, but each day was like fresh slate, and every morning, Hermione hoped someone would write the words on her slate.

"A miracle! He didn't die after all; the body was fake. He has come back!"

'Don't be foolish,' she said to herself and looked out of the window. It was still dusky outside, even though it was nine in the morning. Many of her friends had been horrified that she would choose to go to such an obscure place where the polar night made sure there was next to no daylight during winter.

But she had wanted just that. She couldn't stand bright lights, deep colours, or sharp voices. She wanted to wrap herself in soft darkness to escape the life that tried to deliver her a crushing message every day. And besides, this was where Santa Claus lived. At least the locals were adamant about that the real Santa was nowhere near North Pole, but lived in his log cabin by Mount Ear. Masses of tourists flooded into the surrounding villages and hotels every year to see Santa and to experience the snowy world of wonder.

Happy laughter echoed from the corridor, and she started. Right. Breakfast. She had made a promise to herself to even try to eat something today. She had lived on fruit and nut bars and the odd cans of Coke for months. Not that she had been hungry: in the beginning, she hadn't been able to eat anything without retching. She still wasn't hungry, but her trousers had become so loose they had seriously frightened her.

The dazzling lights in the corridor ceiling bored into her sore eyes as she locked her door. Here in Lapland, almost every building was made of log, and this hotel was no exception. It was more an inn, actually, for someone who had been used to London's magnificent marble hotels.

She felt small and shabby among the other guests who were dressed in brightly-coloured ski overalls. There was a queue to the Reception, but she passed it and went to examine at the map near the door. A cold breeze fluttered the hem of her cardigan as a child of about ten dashed out.

A mop of red hair under a blue woollen cap.

She swallowed and turned away.

'Excuse me, where's the cafeteria?' she asked from a young girl in the gift shop. The girl smiled and pointed to the right, speaking English in the broad accent of the locals.

'Over there, go straight past the toilets.'

She obviously recognised her, and no wonder: to escape the silence, she had often come to the gift shop and spent ages browsing. She even had a stack of magazines in the native language in her room. Some nights she had sat on her bed, TV blasting, and tried to decipher the language from the articles. Just to keep her mind closed and focused.

'Thanks,' she said and left the shop. She followed the sign pointing towards the toilets and arrived at a cafeteria with windows opening to three directions. It was a cosy place, and she found herself wondering if it was open for most of the day.

_Breakfast 7-10  
Lunch 11-13  
Dinner 17-19_

As she skimmed through the sign by the door, she realised that she had only forty-five minutes left to have her meal. She took a wooden tray and walked to the counter, which was stocked with rolls, cheese, ham, vegetables, and yoghurts. She had a sudden craving for orange juice, and glancing around, she poured the remaining juice in a glass pitcher into two glasses. The ham looked slimy, and her stomach gurgled unpleasantly at the sight. Fine, just a roll then, and some butter. That was better than nothing, after all.

She turned hesitantly around, searching for a place to sit. Most tables were empty already, so she had plenty to choose from. Her natural instinct would have been to sit by the window, but the sight of the boy with the flaming hair was still fresh in her mind. She spotted a small table behind a decorative wall right in front of her, overlooking the door, and she made her way towards it. As she put her tray on the table, she noticed a nook with two more tables behind a large flower pot on the left. One of the tables was empty, but there was an occupant at the other one: the dark outline of a man sat sideways to her, half hidden behind another plant. She didn't pay attention to him, merely stared at the roll on her plate. She had to eat it. The butter shone pale yellow in its tiny plastic cup, bringing a taste of disgust in her mouth.

'Come on,' she said quietly. 'You used to like this stuff.'

Truly, she had. Her parents had been very strict about food, and maybe because of it, she had had a curious habit as a child to sneak to the kitchen and make herself slices and slices of buttery toast when her parents were at work. Mum would never have allowed her to eat butter with bread; it had to be margarine, as low fat as possible.  
Then at Hogwarts she had always been able to have real butter, and her addiction had slowly waned away. Now it was inexistent.

'Am I really sitting here and pondering about butter?' she muttered and grabbed the knife. She would force down a roll even if it was the last thing she did.

Right then, the man in the shadows turned his face to her.

The knife clattered onto the plate and rolled to the floor. The whimper that escaped her lips would have been a cry had she not had to seize the table with both hands.

Severus Snape was staring at her between two leafy branches.


	3. Are You a Fragment of My Imagination?

**Chapter 2: Are You a Fragment of My Imagination?**

Snape stared at her for a few seconds, and then turned his head away almost impassively. Hermione stared back, unable to move, unable to pick up the knife from the floor.

Severus Snape couldn't be alive. Harry had seen him die in the Shrieking Shack over six years ago, seen the snake sink its teeth in his neck. Seen life depart his eyes.

Was she hallucinating? Would Ron walk in next?

'Sulla kaikki hyvin?' A waitress leaned over her, holding a pile of dirty plates.

'What?' She jumped.

'Everything all right?' the woman repeated in bad English, and Hermione nodded.

'Yes, I'm fine.'

The woman looked slightly doubtful, but left to empty the next table. Hermione sat still, her eyes glued to the man drinking tea, quite leisurely, behind the blooming plant.  
She had to go.

She stood up, and the knife clinked loudly against the floor as her foot pushed it aside. The man didn't look at her; he appeared to be reading a newspaper. She veered carefully around the table, breathing in deep. If it was him, she would have to find a shrink first thing in the morning –her mind was the one thing she didn't want to lose. 

The man didn't move, even though he had to see her approaching. A veil of black hair cascaded over his shoulders to the table, hiding his face.

'Excuse me?' she said, her voice shaking. 'Sir?'

The man put down his tea cup, and slowly, almost painfully so, raised his head. Black eyes glimmered above a hooked nose and a throat specked with pale pink scars. Thin lips curled slightly in recognition.

'Yes?'

She didn't know what to say. This was final proof: she had lost her mind. She would be doomed to live a half-life forever, surrounded by sneering ghosts from a past when everything was well. War and Voldemort aside, still well.

'You're not...I'm hallucinating...I'm so sorry...' 

'Hallucinate away.' Snape returned his attention to the newspaper, which seemed to be _The Times_.

'You're dead!' Her lips moved before her mind.

'Dead men do not read _The Times_ in a hotel in Lapland. Now move, you're blocking the light.'

She ran away from the cafeteria, up the stairs, into her room. The windows rattled as she banged the door shut and slid onto the floor. A sudden fear gripped her, and she craned her neck. Wasn't there a tall figure standing by the window? Didn't a freckled face peek from the mirror on the wall? She rushed up and opened all closets, turned on every lamp, and whipped away the bedspread.  
Just a couple of dust balls.

Trembling, she sank on the bed and pulled a woollen blanket around her. There was a game show on in the telly, and a white-teethed host was asking a plump, blonde woman something in the native tongue. She must have answered correctly as the crowd cheered. They were all so pale somehow in this country. Pale like the man downstairs.  
No, the _hallucination_ downstairs, she corrected herself. Severus Snape was dead, and she was merely suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.

Though, she didn't remember where he had been buried... Things had been a blur from the moment in the Shrieking Shack until Voldemort's downfall, and afterwards she had been too crushed by the deaths and too concentrated on consoling the grieving ones. She hadn't even had time to read the newspapers –not that she would have wanted to either. The only time in her life, she hadn't cared about seeing the happenings repeated on paper. They had been too close, too painful. 

But hadn't there been a rumour of an old man finding Snape's body and burying it on the grounds of the Shrieking Shack?

The clock ticked on, and she watched the TV without changing the channel. After the game show came the news: something about ships and harbours, and a report of a conflict in the Middle East. Then an episode of _Happy Days_, a cartoon, an episode of a German detective series, and an episode of _Absolutely Fabulous_. She watched it all without a smile, just pressing her roaring stomach. She was hungry. Hungry for the first time in eternity.

She glanced at the door. Didn't malnourishment cause hallucinations? Yes, she was quite sure she had read about it. If she ate a good meal, her brain would stabilise. The clock on the table by the bed showed 14:36, half past two, which meant that dinner would commence in two and a half hours. The gift shop was open all day, though, and it had a nice snack section.

She threw the blanket aside and put on her slippers. As she rummaged through the small desk under the mirror for her purse, her reflection flashed in the mirror: hair tied on a messy bun, blank, brown eyes, lips glowing like strawberries in a white face. Suddenly, she was angry with herself. How could she allow her life to drain away like this? She had always –_always-_ been the dependant one, the one who held others up when they swayed. And yet she knew deep down that she couldn't have stood unmoved through this storm –this had been one of the bases of her life. Despite Ron's occasional cluelessness, she had always known they would be together, ever since that spot of dirt on his nose. She had always supposed that her future would hold plenty of fascinating work and research, and outside that, lots of red hair. She only had to close her eyes and she could feel it. Not silky, but not rough either. Had that peculiar Ron smell.  
She would never smell it again.

She pushed the purse angrily in her pocket and strode to the corridor. A young man looked at her curiously as she stormed down the stairs, but she didn't care. Let them live their pink dreams; she would go and buy one of those mozzarella sandwiches she remembered seeing in the shop. And a large bar of chocolate.

There were quite a few people in the shop, but they hadn't bought out the sandwiches, and she spotted the triangle-shaped plastic containers as soon as she walked in. She took two sandwiches, four chocolate bars, a bag of crisps, and three cans of Diet Coke. Oh, and a couple of apples for vitamins.

It was rather quiet in the Reception and in the stairs, and it suited her well, as she was not used to carrying loads of comfort food in public. Usually, she had just searched through Ron's pockets or Molly's cupboard.

A pair of legs in black trousers blocked her way in the curve of the stairs.

She took a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. _Hallucination. Remember. Your mind has the capability to banish it. You know it is not there._

She opened her eyes. Black eyes glided along the stash in her lap, and a touch of sneer played on the lips. He made a slight movement to get past her, but she stepped quickly to fully block his way. Fine, her mind was obviously still weak, but she could always reason with this thing. She had always excelled in that.

'Mr Snape,' she said and balanced the food in her hands. 'I just wanted to –'

And suddenly, she didn't know what to say. Ask him why he was here? But if he was a hallucination, he could say anything. Was she really readying herself for reasoning with a hallucination, a fragment of her own imagination?

'Miss Granger.' She heard the quiet, slightly husky voice that Harry and Ron had hated so much. 'I am on my way out, and I would appreciate it if you moved aside.'

'How can you be here?' she blurted. 'You're dead!'

Snape took out his wand, and she stepped aside. She had no illusions of what the man could do. He passed her, but when he was two steps lower than she, he looked up.

'I'm sad to see that one of the rare students of mine with a smidgen of brains has become a sorry, overeating weakling.'

He turned around and strode down, his long, black coat swishing behind him.

'I'm not a weakling!' she cried, tears brimming in her eyes. 'And this is the first time I'm eating real food in months!'

But he had already gone. She leaned against the wall, panting and trying to collect herself. Ron's voice rose from somewhere far away..."_That greasy git._"

'Yes.' She brushed her cheek savagely. 'Greasy git!'


	4. Life Did Not Depart Your Eyes

**Chapter 3: Life Did Not Depart Your Eyes**

She didn't manage to eat more than an apple. The chocolate bars had plenty of nuts and caramel, and the sweet, sugary aroma made her stomach turn upside down. The sandwiches were even worse; she couldn't bear to even look at them. 

She refused to think of him any more, or try to explain his presence to her mind. She would try to eat more every day, and gradually, everything would be fine. In fact, Ginny's last letter was still unanswered, and it would provide perfect distraction. It had been a typical one from her: upbeat and full of lively news, but there had been a sense of melancholy underneath.

_Dear Ginny,_ she started writing. _Things continue peacefully over here. I spend most of my days at the hotel and walking in the countryside. _

Well, she had taken that one walk a week after she had arrived. The darkness had been too much, and she had returned to her room after ten minutes.

_Santa Claus's village is right behind the corner. There is also a very nice gift shop in the hotel, and the meals in the cafeteria are very good. I don't know yet when I'll come back. I hope things are well over there. Give my love to Harry, Molly, Arthur, and anyone else you meet.  
Love from Hermione_

For a while, she held the pen under her signature, almost writing the words, "By the way, do you remember where Severus Snape was buried?", but then decided against it. Ginny would start asking questions, and while she normally welcomed any discussion that steered the subject away from Ron, she wasn't willing to talk about her mind matters. Besides, none of them at home needed a single more thing to worry about.

She put the letter in a small envelope that she slipped inside a larger one with her parents' address. Muggle post was not always as quick as owl post, so she could expect a reply probably only in a week or so.

And in the meantime, she'd eat. A proper meal.

At six o'clock, she left her room and went to the Reception to send her letter. The queue to the cafeteria was longer than she had expected, and when she reached the counter, it was nearly seven already. She ladled a little bit of everything on her plate, even the main course, which was sautéed reindeer and didn't inspire much confidence in her.

When she had poured herself some juice, she scanned the room for a nice, quiet nook, but there were only random seats here and there amidst cheerfully chattering parties and families. Finally, she headed to a table behind the counter. A couple with a toddler occupied the other three seats, and the mother cast her a slightly annoyed look as she laid down her tray with an apologetic smile. The toddler seemed to be in a right temper: she was banging a plastic spoon against the plate, which was dotted with orange-brown sauce.

'Julia, älä nyt viitsi,' the woman said tiredly and stopped the small hand. 'Lähdetään, Mikko.'

The couple stood up and started packing their belongings. The man picked up the child, who started screaming, and the family hurried out.

So, now she was alone with her food. It smelled...not bad, but not enticing either. She drenched a piece of potato in gravy and ate it. It was a strange sensation to feel warmth in her mouth again. She ate another piece of potato, and another. The sautéed reindeer stayed untouched, it was still too much. She ate a couple of mouthfuls of salad, too, and drank half a glass of orange juice. At least she was getting some vitamins.

She chewed the last piece of potato slowly, closing her eyes; she knew she couldn't eat more or she would be nauseous. With a little sigh, she reached for the glass, which was suddenly black.

Black?

She raised her eyes to the dark figure towering in front of her.

'I do apologise for the intrusion, but this appears to be the last available seat.'

She looked quickly around and saw two men eating and talking animatedly on the seats that mother and daughter had occupied earlier. Had they seen her strange enjoyment of the potato? But they didn't even look at her, and she returned her gaze to the dark figure still standing by the empty seat in front of her. Didn't he look slightly less black? A bit more transparent?

'Since you seem to be incapable of speaking at present, I'll suit myself.'

Snape sat down and lifted his tea cup away from the tray. Hermione swallowed and put down her utensils. The men beside her seemed to be completely wrapped up in their conversation; they didn't even glance at the newcomer.

Well, obviously they wouldn't if he was a hallucination.

'Are you really alive?' she blurted. 'Or are you a fragment of my imagination?'

Snape's black eyes surveyed her for a while in silence. She didn't look away; she was determined to stand up to whatever it was.

And then, something warm touched her hand. From the corner of her eye, she saw a black sleeve very close to the sleeve of her own brown cardigan. His hand was resting on hers. A peculiar feeling tinkered through her –somehow, she had always thought his touch would be very cool, almost cold. Inhuman, somehow.  
And yet there it was: a firm, slender hand, perhaps slightly paler than hers, but otherwise warm and supple.

It was gone in a few speeding seconds.

'Enough to rid you of whatever silly notions you seem to have been entertaining?'

'But we saw you die,' she whispered and pulled her hand into her lap. His touch was still lingering on her skin, not unpleasant.

'No, you saw a snake attack me. And Potter in his usual reckless style went his merry way without making sure I was actually dead.'

'How could you possibly have survived?'

Snape's lips curled.

'Use your brain. Who in their right mind would not have been prepared with venom antidote when Voldemort was traipsing around with that nasty piece of tentacle?'

'You bled an awful lot, though.'

'Yes, yes,' Snape said impatiently and sipped his tea. 'Didn't Arthur Weasley bleed like a river when Nagini attacked him? I had been taking an antidote in the form of a potion for weeks, and I started nonverbal healing spells on myself as soon as you left.'

'You gave Harry those memories,' Hermione insisted. 'And he said he saw life depart your eyes.'

Snape leaned on the table and crossed his hands under his chin, examining her with his glittering, black eyes.

'What you saw was a show. I needed to get you all out so that I could start the healing spells. Of course, I'm no simpleton, and I knew perfectly well that the snake might have done irreparable damage or I might not be able to do the healing spells in time. As much as I dislike Potter, I didn't want him to keep believing that I was a monster second only to Voldemort. Since Potter has always been prone to emotionality, I thought my memories of his mother would do the trick best. And it was the truth, to an extent.'

Hermione sat still, her mind working frantically. As she looked back, she felt ashamed of her own foolishness. How could she have left the man there without checking his condition?

'I'm sorry that I didn't stay,' she muttered and shoved a forkful of sautéed reindeer in her mouth. It was quite strong and made her splutter into her handkerchief.

'I preferred to disappear quietly without having to deal with the aftermath.' Snape's eyes followed the handkerchief Hermione balled up and put on the tray. 'Please don't tell me you've let yourself sink into this state because of Weasley.'

'So what if I have?' Hermione lifted her chin defiantly. 'I lost him two weeks before our wedding. I'm sorry if you think grieving is out of the question in that case.'

Snape didn't reply, but his lips curved in a way that told he thought it was at least exceedingly silly.

'Ron was a good man,' Hermione said, her lips trembling. 'Whatever you may think. And he was getting a lot of praise as an Auror.'

'Weasley, really?'

'Yes.'

Snape said nothing, but his eyes didn't leave her, and his fingers caressed the rim of his glass thoughtfully. Something in his eyes stimulated a tender spot deep inside her.  
And she was not ready for that.

'I'm sorry, I must go.' She stood up so brusquely that the remaining juice splashed from her glass. 'Good night.'

She strode out without waiting for a reply. But when she turned around at the door, he was still watching her, that maddening sneer playing on his lips.


	5. Tidings from Home

**Chapter 4: Tidings From Home**

She didn't meet him again for several days. She was starting to think he had left, but then she spotted him from her window one Friday evening. He had draped a huge black scarf around his neck, and he was walking quite briskly. She watched him disappear to the snowy street and returned to the table. She was restless, and staying in the same place didn't feel satisfying any more. Yet how could she go back? She had insisted on returning to work one day after Ron had died, and she had persisted despite the gentle nudges of her friends and colleagues. Finally, when she had burst to hysterical tears in the middle of an important meeting, her boss had insisted that she take a leave of absence.

There was a knock on the door, and she went to open it. It was one of the hotel employees.

'A letter for you, madam.'

'Thanks.' Hermione gave the man a few coins and sat on the bed. It was a thick envelope with her mother's handwriting. Inside were two letters, one from her parents and one from Ginny. Her parents' letter was full of the usual news about Mum's gardening and the neighbours, and after skimming through it, she opened Ginny's letter. There was a newspaper clipping inside with a picture of a band smirking at the camera. Ginny had scrawled something in the margin.

_"Guess who we met the other day? Theodore Nott! He's in Wild Warlocks now, and he was thrilled about it. He invited us to come and see them perform at the Leaky Cauldron. We went, and they're really good!"_

The band looked like any Muggle rock band: everyone was dressed in black leather and bore a grim expression. A tall man with strawberry blond hair and piercing blue eyes was holding the mic at the front, and Theodore stood on the side with a silver guitar.

_"Meet Constantin, Joel, Theodore, and Mick -members of Wild Warlocks and four of the hottest wizards in Britain! This up-and-coming band will begin a nationwide tour in February, and tickets are already selling like hot cakes. Watch out, Weird Sisters!"_

Hermione felt her mouth stretch into a reluctant smile. There was something very over-the-top in the picture, but at least Theodore looked happy. He had always been something of a loner at school.

She proceeded to read Ginny's letter.

_Dear Hermione,  
It was so good to hear from you! We're all quite worried about you, but Dad says we must trust that you know what you're doing. It sounds like a strange place, what with so much darkness and snow. Aren't there any wizards or witches around, or do you socialise with Muggles only? How is the food over there? I hope you're eating a bit better now.  
We're all fine. Well, Mum is behaving slightly oddly, and I don't really know how to say this...she's actually pestering Dad to have one more child. She says she has lost too many. Poor Mum.  
Harry is working hard, and I try to keep him from overdoing it. He isn't really talking.  
I guess this is it. I'm sorry to send such a short letter, but there isn't that much to tell. We're taking things one day at a time.  
Everybody sends their love.  
Ginny  
PS. Well, maybe I wasn't completely honest in saying that there is no news. But I didn't know how you'd take it...see, we're going to have a baby next summer. Harry is thrilled, and he intends to name it Ron if it's a boy. Mum started crying at that._

Hermione let the letter drop on the floor.  
A baby.

Inhaling deep, she hurried over to the bathroom and leaned over the sink. That had been _their_ plan. She had been promoted as high as she could at that point of her career, so she and Ron had decided to have children as soon as they'd be married, so that when new career opportunities would open up, the kids would be older.  
And now Harry and Ginny would have a baby.

'It's unfair,' she whispered. She had been robbed of a husband and all the children they would have had. Harry and Ginny still had each other, and now they would have a baby, too.

'You selfish prat!' The reflection in the mirror seemed to speak. 'Look at how much Harry has lost, look at the circumstances in which he lived! Will you not allow him this happiness?'

'Of course I do,' Hermione said miserably, feeling so ashamed she couldn't look at herself. It was easy to get wrapped up in her own pain and forget that she wasn't the only one who had lost; the mute pain in Harry's eyes had been the main reason why she had stopped visiting him and Ginny before coming here.

She sat on the bed and put the letters in her bag. She would gather her strength and write the happiest congratulatory letter ever, and she would send a gift, too. Just not right now.

Her hand brushed some folders she had brought with her from work. One of them was a study where the inhabitants of a certain county had been asked questions about their opinions on house-elves. Many of the questions had been philosophical and called for answers outside the simple "Yes" or "No" scope. The results were promising and showed that a large percentage of the respondents didn't approve of mistreatment, and a good percentage of the females in particular were ready to take some kind of action to improve the situation.

She finished reading the report much later. The room was nearly dark, and the only light came from the TV that she had set on mute. The clock on the table by the bed showed 19:12, twelve past seven, which meant that she had missed dinner. Her stomach was gurgling, but the mozzarella sandwiches on the windowsill didn't tempt her; she had a sudden craving for something warm. Maybe another potato. She brushed her hair a few times in front of the mirror and put on some lip balm. Her face was still very pale, but her eyes had kindled ever so slightly.

She descended the stairs slowly, taking in the view: children running around, adults coming in and stomping their snowy feet, teenagers sporting trendy ski wear and eyeing each other. A middle-aged woman in a glittering dress passed her, and she craned her neck to see where she was going.

'Are you looking for something, madam?' The man at Reception smiled affably.

'Not really,' she said and pulled her jacket tighter around her as a cold breeze blew in from the open door. 'I missed dinner, though, but I suppose the gift shop is the only place to get food at this time?'

'Oh no, madam, you can get a hot meal at the Bar.' The man pointed to a narrow hallway where the fancily-dressed woman had disappeared. 'It's over there.'

'Thank you.' Hermione returned the smile and started hesitantly towards the hallway. The man hadn't mentioned a dress code, but she felt uncomfortably scruffy in her attire. Her forest green jacket was velvet, but it was actually a part of a sports outfit, and her trousers, although dark blue, were jeans.

The Bar was a long room with tables set by the windows around a dance floor in the middle. A band was playing evergreens on a stage at the front, and two waiters in white shirts were zooming from one table to another. Most of the tables were still empty, but there was a queue to a small counter at the back of the room where a barman was mixing drinks.

Hermione let her eyes glide over the tables, searching for a secluded spot where she could eat undisturbed. Most tables were for four, but there seemed to be a couple of tables for two in a nook by the door. They were nearly hidden from view by the same large plants as in the cafeteria. It was perfect. She smiled apologetically at the people at the next table and reached to pull out a chair.

'Why, Miss Granger. We meet again.'

Severus Snape was already sitting at the table.


	6. You Are Not Easy

**Chapter 5: You Are Not Easy**

Hermione arranged a quick smile on her face, her hand still on the back of the chair.

'Professor. I had no idea you enjoyed this type of entertainment.'

'I'm not your professor any more, and I don't.'

'Fine. Well, I'm here to eat because I missed dinner. I'll find another table and leave you to...your drink.' Hermione glanced at the glass of golden liquid on the table in front of Snape. It seemed to amuse him.

'You think I've gone alcoholic?'

'No, of course not.' Hermione blushed. 'This is a bar, after all.'

A waiter hurried over and forced the chair from her hands.

'Ja mitä saisi olla?'

'Oh no, I was actually -'

'Ah sorry, English. What can I get you?' The waiter took out a small pad and looked at her expectantly.

'I really wasn't -'

'Tonight we have fried fillet of reindeer with game sauce and fried potatoes, grilled salmon with tartar sauce and boiled potatoes, and chicken pasta.'

'Actually, I'm not -'

The waiter looked from her to Snape. He seemed to think she was somehow troubled, as he leaned over to whisper to Snape, 'Does your wife need more time to decide, sir?'

'Come on now, darling, how about the fillet of reindeer?' Snape said in a mock-sweet tone, his black eyes glimmering with malice.

'Grilled salmon, please,' Hermione said between gritted teeth and sat in the chair the waiter was thrusting against her leg. 'And water, please.'

The waiter nodded and hurried away. Snape sipped his drink, looking highly entertained.

'I did intend to have a private dinner,' Hermione snapped and spread a napkin in her lap. 'But you're obviously not opposed to company.'

'Don't even try to pretend you aren't burning to throroughly interrogate me.'

'I most certainly am not,' Hermione said, swallowing the questions she had intended to shoot at him.

The waiter came back with a jug of water and a salad plate, which smelled of Italian dressing.

'There you go. Enjoy your evening, madam, sir.'

Snape inclined his head, but his eyes were still on her.

'So, what did Potter say when you rushed to tell him that I'm still alive?'

'I haven't told him,' Hermione said and tasted the salad. The flavour was strong, but it was good.

'Singularly unbelievable from a tattletale like you.'

Hermione bit her tongue and counted to ten. _Don't succumb to his taunting. He enjoys it - just remember what Harry went through in Potions._

'I haven't told anyone,' she said simply and ate another forkful. The salad had made her ravenously hungry, but she didn't dare gobble in front of him.

'In my experience insufferable know-it-alls rarely change. I bet you have a letter already written.'

'I don't!' Hermione spluttered so angrily that a piece of cabbage flew on the table. 'I have some tact!'

'The kind you showed when you ran to McGonagall to tattle about Potter's new broom in your third year?'

'That was ages ago! Besides, I thought a murderer was after Harry, and I was just thinking about his safety.'

'Of course,' Snape said quietly. 'And that is your problem, Miss Granger. You feel obligated to engage in every possible situation to educate and enlighten the great unwashed who could not even breathe without your mindful instructions.'

Hermione was so hurt by his words that she had to escape behind the glass of water. This was by far not the first time he, or someone else, had called her that. Maybe she had been a know-it-all. So what? She had always meant well.

'I don't see why you have such a sudden interest in Harry's welfare,' she said bitterly and put down the glass.

'I don't. I was merely demonstrating my point on why I believed you to have tattled about me.'

She didn't reply, just finished the salad, looking resolutely away. Snape was quiet as well, but his glass clinked occasionally against the table.

The waiter came with the food a painful ten minutes later. The salmon smelled delicious, but Hermione concentrated on the two potatoes first. She could feel Snape's eyes on her, and it irritated her to no end.

'Do you plan to stare at me for the whole evening?'

'I'm still waiting for the interrogation.'

_Right, I've had it. I can play this game, too, Mr Snark._

'Oh, good!' Hermione said merrily. 'Why are you here? Have you been here all this time? How do you make your living? Are you still in contact with the wizarding world? Does anyone know you're still alive? Do you still hate Harry? Do you know he now considers you one of the bravest men he's ever known and plans to name one of his children after you?'

'Don't you feel so much better now that you've managed to give in to nature?'

'Yes!' Hermione popped a piece of salmon in her mouth and smiled warmly. 'And I have all night, Mr Snape. Go on.'

Snape studied her for a while with a thin-lipped smile, his slender fingers twirling the glass slowly on the table. Hermione remembered his skills in Legilimency and broke off their eye-contact by focusing her eyes on his mouth instead. Snape let out a soft sniff.

'I'm here because I've just completed a teaching assignment in Russia, and this was the easiest way out. No, I haven't been here all this time; after the incident in the Shrieking Shack I apparated to London and stayed in a small Muggle hotel for a while. When I was well enough, I travelled to France, then moved to Italy, then to Malta, Morocco, Greece, India, and onwards. I make my living teaching Muggles. I am not in contact with anyone in the wizarding world, although I do read the _Daily Prophet_ regularly, and to my knowledge, nobody knows I'm still alive save the one person who is currently gazing at my lips. My feelings on Potter have not changed, and if he plans to name his snotty offspring after me, I will change my name.'

Hermione was quite overwhelmed by the amount of information, but she held a blank expression and only withdrew her eyes from his lips.

'Isn't it quite ridiculous to keep holding a grudge at your age?' she said lightly and ate the last piece of the first potato. 'Especially as Harry has now changed his opinion of you.'

'I don't care what Potter thinks. I have never found anything admirable in him, and I never will.'

'You know, for such a clever man, you are pitifully bitter.'

Snape didn't seem taken aback by her arrow. He took another sip of his drink, his black eyes glinting through the glass.

'Do tell me what marvellous things Potter did that earned him so much admiration and love? I'm all ears.'

'He conquered Voldemort.'

'No, he didn't. Voldemort was killed by his own rebounding curse.'

'But Harry fought him, more than once.'

'So did many others. What makes him so special?'

'Maybe the fact that he was an innocent boy who was the prey of the darkest wizard of all time against his will.'

Snape leaned forward.

'You still don't get it, Miss Granger. What did Potter ever do that set him apart from, say, you? In every occasion he was helped by others or the circumstances were lucky. He never won a battle with his own skills or his own mind. Whereas you -you did a great deal with _your_ skills. You basically held Potter up. Yet he is glorified, considered special, and hailed a hero. Can you deny it?'

Hermione didn't look at Snape. She was not going to let him win, even though logically speaking, his words made sense. She poured herself more water, her mind working feverishly.

'But Harry chose to die voluntarily to destroy that piece of Voldemort's soul in him. If he hadn't done that, nobody could have killed Voldemort. You can't deny that it was heroic.'

'Yes, in this world that favours death as the highest form of sacrifice or nobility it likely was so. But what if the Golden Trio had been only Potter, or, I shudder to say, Potter, Longbottom, and Weasley? What if I or Dumbledore had not lifted a finger to protect him in all those years?'

'I get your point,' Hermione said crossly. 'I just think you're being too hard on him. He tried, and he really did the best he could.'

'Nonsense. That was exactly Potter's problem. Everybody kept patting him on the head, and nobody really challenged him or forced him to become his own man. His story is the story of one extraordinarily lucky circumstance after another. You must pardon me for not seeing anything admirable in that.'

'Fine.' Hermione laid her utensils on the plate. She was not used to being overpowered in a debate. 'Can we possibly talk about something else than Harry?'

'You brought him up.'

Sweet cooked salmon, the man was annoying! Hermione did another count, this time to twenty.

'How come you continued teaching? I thought you hated it.'

'Dunderheads, yes, but every now and then you get a student who has enough spark to keep you going. It happens less with Muggle children; many of them have concentration issues due to TVs and video games, but even they have the occasional stars.'

'What do you teach?'

'Mostly English, Chemistry, and History. Sometimes Maths.'

'That's quite a wide range of subjects.'

Snape leaned back in his chair. He was dressed in a black Nehru jacket and black trousers, but he still reminded her of the bat-like man in the black cloak, sweeping through the castle corridors.

'The amount of knowledge required from an elementary school teacher is next to nothing. It is an easy task for a well-educated mind. You should know.'

Hermione nodded uncertainly and leaned back to allow a waiter take her plate away.

'Dessert, madam?'

'Just an orange juice, thank you.'

'Another dry sherry for you, sir?'

Snape shook his head.

The waiter balanced the empty water glass on the plate and dashed away. The dance floor had been filling gradually during their conversation, and now there were at least a dozen couples on it. Hermione watched a young couple nearby smile tenderly at each other, and the familiar tightening settled again in her chest.

She had loved dancing with Ron. He had blossomed into a man at the age of 19, and all the teenage lankiness had vanished. He had been big and safe, and she had loved burying her head in his chest. She had even bought a gramophone, and they had often danced quietly for hours in the long winter evenings. Nothing fancy, just leaning on each other.

Her eyes welled uncontrollably and she was thankful for the waiter, who squirmed between the tables with her orange juice.

'Thanks, and please put everything on my bill. Hermione Granger, room 12,' she half-whispered and raised the glass on her lips. The juice flowed down her throat, sour and strong, and gave her an excuse to cough and brush her eyes.

'You surprise me.' She heard Snape's voice through the music. 'I never considered you a sentimental person.'

She looked him straight in the eyes, her lips trembling.

'You may pride yourself with always hiding your emotions. I don't -I believe emotions are essential to being a decent human being. And when you have lost someone you loved with all your heart, there is nothing shameful or wrong in feeling sadness for a considerable time afterwards.'

Snape's fathomless eyes bored into hers. She couldn't read his expression, but he wasn't sneering.

'My survival depended on my ability to keep my heart away from my sleeve.'

'Yes, but Voldemort is gone, and there is no threat or reason any more to keep pushing away that what makes us human. I miss Ron, and every day I encounter situations and details that remind me of him. And yes, I will cry and be sad, but with time, it will lessen. That is human, too. I would imagine that you of all people would understand.'

It was a mistake. Snape's eyes flashed, and his body rigidified.

'Keep me out of your psychobabble!'

A-ha. Obviously, this was her weapon to block him from tormenting her, or even a possibility for her to turn things around. She put her glass on the table and leaned forward.

'Nonsense, Mr Snape. Now that we're here, I'd really like to discuss your relationship with Lily Pot-'

She was halfway through the word when Snape seized her arm. His black eyes were alight with ominous fire.

'There are paths where you will not go, Miss Granger. This is one of them.'

'And you're allowed to go down the same path for me?' Hermione whispered, staring at his white face, which was very close. 'You have the right to needle me about Ron and my grief, but I don't have the same right with _your_ grief?'

Snape didn't let go of her arm, and they remained in position, glaring at each other.

'Täälläpä on suloinen pariskunta!' someone chirped, and the branches of a plant were swished aside to reveal the singer of the band beaming down at them. 'Olettekos te häämatkalla?'

'What?' Snape said, furrowing his brow and letting go of her arm.

'Oh, I see, you're foreigners! Are you on your honey moon?'

Everybody cheered, and Hermione blushed to the root of her hair.

'No,' Snape began, but the man seemed to be on such a cheerful mood that he was hardly listening.

'You were gazing at each other so romantically that I say we simply must see you on the dance floor. Come on!'

Everybody clapped, and some people even stomped their feet. The singer nudged Hermione and winked at Snape, gesturing to the dance floor where people had moved aside to let them in.

'Don't be shy, now!'

'We aren't -,' Hermione began, but Snape stood up, his face unreadable.

'The man is not sober. Let's go before he draws even more attention to us.'

And before Hermione could even blink, she found herself being guided towards the dance floor by Snape.


End file.
